Emend
by Emilise
Summary: Draco is just a scared little boy with problems bigger than wishing wells and cackling stumps. (Or, eight-year-old Draco gets memories from his post-War self.) A series of vignettes. Eight chapters.
1. Covering

Draco's arms feel heavy; he's been holding them up for what feels like an age. The tape measure curls around his waist, cinching to the slicing rhythm of the shop assistant's scissors. He sighs in relief as she finally tells him, "You can put your arms down now, Mr. Malfoy. I just have to hem your robes now."

 _What have you_ been _doing?_ Draco cantankerously wonders, but rolls his shoulders in relief. He makes sure to keep his body still below the waist, though; one small move and the entire measurement will be off and he'll be walking around Hogwarts in crooked robes for the entire year. Well, at least until Christmas, and his father would be sure to have the shop assistant fired for her oversight. Best to just keep still.

Madame Malkin herself leads another boy to the fitting area just as he finishes considering this, a motherly hand on his shoulder as she directs him to stand on a stool next to Draco.

Draco stops breathing for a few seconds. When he begins again, the air comes shallowly, rasping through his lungs and out again as if he's ill with Mumblemumps. "Hello," he says raspily, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Harry Potter says. There is a moment of silence, broken only by the zip of thread as the two witches sew their robes.

"Know what House you'll be in, yet? All my family's been in Slytherin, so I'm bound to be as well," Draco finally offers, feeling as though he might stumble after all, and end up with crooked robes for his trouble.

"Er—" Potter says. "Slytherin?"

"Don't tell me you don't know about the Houses?" Seeing Potter's blank eyes and scrunched brows, Draco huffs a breath and explains, "Hogwarts divides students into groups, called Houses, where students live for all seven years. There's four of them: Gryffindor's for bravery, Ravenclaw's for cleverness, Hufflepuff's for loyalty, and Slytherin's for ambition. That's what the Founders meant them to be, of course. Now Slytherin's mostly for purebloods who focus on blood purity and its inherent superiority; Ravenclaw's full of people who are smart and do well in classes; Gryffindor's the home of many reckless idiots, and I think Hufflepuff has the people who don't fit anywhere else."

Potter blinks. "Okay," he agrees mindlessly, and Draco wants to storm out of the shop. Alas, crooked robes, but still— _this_ is the intellect of the Boy Who Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World?

"Which House do you think you'll be in, then," Draco says, wanting to tap his foot.

"Er—" Potter repeats, but before he can continue, Madame Malkin pulls the robe back over his head and says, "That's you done, my dear," and leads him out of the shop.

Draco expels air forcefully through his nostrils and glares down at the assistant painstakingly threading his robes. She's taken _twice_ as long as Madame Malkin took with Potter, and he really wants to have his father buy him his Nimbus 2000 now.

* * *

On Draco's eighth birthday, midnight arrived with a bang, and nightmares tumbled through his mind. He woke up bawling and proceeded to wake the entire household with his wails. Dobby appeared at the end of his bed within a few seconds of the noise's beginning. He cringed away from the boy and said nervously, "Is there something Dobby can be doing for Master Draco?"

Draco sat up and stared at him with a quivering lip, then sobbed more harshly, burying his head in his hands. Dobby, whose mouth also began to quiver, snapped his fingers and disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with Draco's mother, her hand lightly draped over his shoulder. She used this hand to push him aside, striding quickly towards Draco's bed.

"My darling, what has happened?" she asked, sitting beside him.

Draco looked up at her, wide blue eyes rimmed with red and brimming with tears. As she began to stroke the white-blond hair at the nape of his neck he blubbered, "I had a dream, Mother—H-harry Potter a-and a curse and the D-d-da, the D—" Draco's stutters dissolved into incoherent whimpers; tears streamed steadily down his cheeks.

Narcissa shushed him, pulled him closer. "My son," she whispered. She began to hum a familiar lullaby.

"M-mum," Draco managed to get out through his heaving sobs, curling closer into her. She smoothed his hair back and stayed with him until his ragged breathing settled back into slumber.


	2. Cortege

Draco bursts into the compartment. His hands shake; his palms are sweaty. He blurts, "Can I sit here?"

The Weasley looks as if he's swallowed something vile, but Potter looks at his trembling fingers, still loosely grasping the trunk; wide eyes, flickering nervously between the two other boys; and thin line of his mouth. "Course," he says, smiling gently and scooting over a bit to make room. "Ron was just telling me about Quidditch."

Draco shakily sits down, pulling his trunk flush against the seats and resting his feet lightly on it. Weasley's incredulous look has evolved into a glare. He's silent until Potter prompts, "Ron? Tell me more about that broom."

Weasley's eyes flicker back to Potter and remain there as he slowly recounts every detail of the Nimbus 2000. Draco listens to his casual accent and watches as his gestures grow more boisterous; it seems like the Weasley forgets his presence. Harry encourages the conversation with small, ignorant questions: _How's Quidditch played, anyway? How many point's the Snitch worth, again? So which team do you root for?_

Draco snorts under his breath as Weasley waxes poetic about the Chudley Cannons; they'll never match up to Lancashire's Chasers…

He slumps further into the seat as his breathing evens out into sleep.

* * *

The nightmares continued over the summer. After two months, Lucius began to hand Draco a mug full of warm milk each night before bed; after drinking them, he didn't have any more nightmares.

While he was asleep, anyway. When he was awake, dark shapes slithered in the corner of his vision, and he startled at every touch—so much so that his mother then hardly ever comforted him at all. He withdrew from his parents and spent more and more time with Dobby, who seemed cringingly flustered by the attention. Especially because of the nature of it.

Draco treated Dobby like a friend—he still ordered him around, but instead of punishments, Draco expected Dobby to throw objects at him as he zoomed around on his broom, to hone his Seeker skills. He made Dobby reenact fairytales with him—more often than not, Dobby was the fool of the story.

(Something in his mind reached towards the House Elf with grief, remembering his aunt's arm thrown out and the glee on her face-)

Draco never let Dobby be the character who died when they were playing.

On Draco's ninth birthday, a quiet party was held for local pureblood families. Draco saw every face (thought of when too many of them would be pale, bloodless—or worse, covered by a cruel mask) and did his best to forget them-they'd only matter in a couple years when they all went to school together.

After they were all gone, Draco gathered his presents and brought them outside. Then he called Dobby.

"Yes, Master Draco, sir?" Dobby greeted him, bowing.

"Dobby, I told you to stop that nonsense," Draco snapped. "Call me Draco, and straighten up."

As his back straightened like a rod, Dobby's wide eyes filled with tears as he looked around him for anything to hit himself with. Fortunately, the compulsion to follow Draco's order to stand straight won out over his desire to throw himself at the ground repeatedly. "Yes, Master Draco," he whispered.

Draco huffed and left the matter alone. "I need you to do something for me. Consider it a birthday gift," he suggested.

Dobby bobbed his head twice. "Anything for Master Draco."

"In my father's study, he keeps a small, black book. It's a diary, inscribed _T. M. Riddle_. Bring it to me without him finding out."

A small _pop,_ a few minutes passed, and then Dobby returned, diary in hand. "Happy birthday, Master Draco."

Draco tossed the diary atop the rest of his presents and told Dobby to bring them to his room and store them in his wardrobe. He didn't plan on looking at any of them again for a long time.


	3. Exposure

The compartment door slamming open wakes Draco. He grumpily glares at the bushy-haired witch who had the nerve to burst in without knocking as she haughtily declares the conductor's advice to put on robes, points out the dirt on Weasley's nose, and whirls out again.

Weasley rubs the smudge away with the sleeve of his jacket before opening his trunk and pulling out his robes. Harry follows suit, but Draco is already wearing them; he simply needs to pull out his pointed hat and jam it on his head. He yawns as a voice echoes through the train, reminding them to leave their luggage on the train. He glances down and suppresses a smirk at seeing Weasley's sneakers almost half a foot below his robes' hem.

They trudge out of the train together when it rolls to a stop. When they make it to the platform, they're almost swept away by the absolute sea of students heading towards the carriages. They're guided to their destination, however, by the booming voice of the half-giant, who specifically greets Harry before directing them all along a path and then into boats. On the path, Draco stops and stares at Hogwarts as it comes into view; the castle's windows shine welcomingly. Draco shivers and continues along, getting into a boat with Weasley, Potter, and Granger, who regretfully waves at Longbottom as she settles next to Weasley. Longbottom flushes and falls into the half-giant's boat; Hagrid rights him with a flick of his enormous hand and shouts directions at the rest as they navigate to the entrance of Hogwarts.

* * *

Draco's mother took him to Diagon Alley on his tenth birthday as a special treat. They toured Nocturne Alley before strolling upon the brightly lit paths of Diagon, filled with students fresh from the year's end who were opening their summer holidays with Fortescue's cones or steamy, trashy novels from Flourish and Blott's.

One student in particular caught his eye: her hair constantly shifted in color and shape, from red to blue to black to green and colors he'd never even seen before. Walking by her side, he saw a woman with a haughty, upturned face and tumbling black curls. She laughed loftily as the student told her something, and Draco—

(A delicate hand caressed his face as the voice crooned to him, singing, murmuring—then the caress transformed into an attack. Blood red nails scratched across his cheeks, drawing blood—)

Draco flinched, but looked closer and saw the genuine smile on her mouth, no cruelty to be seen. _Aunt Andromeda,_ he realized, _and Nymphadora._

He kept his attention on his mother for the rest of the outing, politely thanking her when she purchased him a new racing broom and eagle owl, who he named Aquila.

She flew out with her first letter that evening.


	4. Advent

Draco is still huffing slightly from their trek up the stairs when Hagrid pounds deafeningly on the door, which opens immediately. Professor McGonagall appears and whisks the first years away from Hagrid; Draco follows willingly, walking so close to Potter that their arms brush.

As they continually make contact, Potter glances at Draco's face, growing more tight and drawn the closer they get to the Great Hall. He extends his arm a bit further and deliberately bumps it into Draco's. Draco scowls and pulls his arm across his stomach, preventing it from reaching out and knocking into Potter in return. Potter frowns and returns his attention to gaping at the magnificence of the entrance hall before the group is ushered into a dim, tight chamber.

Draco rubs his elbow and hunches in on himself further, listening with half an ear as Professor McGonagall explains the House system to the ignorant mass. He smirks, however, when she criticizes certain appearances and everybody does their best to groom themselves quickly. He snorts a bit as he sees Potter attempting to tame his messy hair.

Professor McGonagall leaves, and a low hum of chatter rises in the small room. Weasley nervously shares his brothers' accounts of the Sorting, and Draco can't help but snort audibly.

"Honestly, Weasley, we're _first years_ ," he drawls, scrunching his nose. "You really think they'd torture us by having the first thing we do be a _pop quiz_?"

While Weasley looks disgruntled, Draco's comment seems to have settled Potter's nerves; his hands, which had been fidgeting anxiously, settle, and he leans closer to Draco. "What d'you think it is, then?" he wonders.

Draco offers him a withering glare. "If Professor McGonagall didn't tell us, what makes you think I would?"

Potter's eyes widen, and he begins to reach out a hand before aborting the motion. "Sorry, I just—"

Suddenly, a chorus of screams resounds around them. Draco flinches, ducks his head, rolls into a crouch, and points his wand threateningly towards where the screams had been aimed.

Potter is staring at him, not the ghosts, as he carefully straightens and slips his wand back into his holster. "Hey, are you all right?" he whispers, still ignoring the spirits waxing poetic about Hogwarts.

Draco doesn't answer and simply rolls his shoulders, watching Professor McGonagall return and call the students into order.

They file into a line and enter the Great Hall, some still chattering quietly amongst themselves.

* * *

Aquila alighted on Draco's windowsill and hooted softly at him, craning her head toward the letter she still carried in her talons.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, stroking her head with one hand as he took the letter with the other. She preened into his attention, rubbing her beak against his palm and cooing continuously. Draco offered his arm to her. She hopped on, curving her sharp talons away from his skin. Draco picked up a letter opener sitting on his bedside table as he brought Aquila to her cage, where she settled and began to preen herself.

Draco carefully slit the letter as he sat down at his desk. He pulled the parchment out of the envelop and began to unfold it, but fumbled as the sheet was heavier than he expected. It _clink_ ed softly as it fell on the desk. He picked up the parchment again, carefully, and turned it sideways, watching as a solitary knut slid out and landed.

Ignoring it for now, he turned his attention to the letter:

 _My dearest nephew,_

 _Merry Christmas! I do hope that you had an enjoyable morning, spent cozily by the fire and Yuletide tree. Our family certainly did; Nymphadora shared with us pictures of her friends at Hogwarts as we cozied up with mugs of hot cocoa…_

The letter continued for some time in that matter, lingering on pleasantries and anecdotes while politely enquiring as to Draco's state of affairs. Bored, he skimmed the parchment and flipped it over, his eyes alighting on the section he had expected at the beginning:

 _Enclosed is my Christmas gift to you. It is charmed to only reverse its transfiguration at your touch, where it will turn into a goblet once more. Thank you for your gift of porcelain figurines; I had thought I'd lost them when I lost the rest of my family and its heirlooms._

 _Forever grateful for you, and forever with love,_

 _Aunt Andromeda_

Draco set the letter down and tentatively tapped the knut; it seemed to stretch and shrink all at once before suddenly a chalice sat before him. He took it to his closet and threw it in, where it laid atop a diary.


End file.
